


Where Angels Fear to Tread

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied Mpreg, Kid Fic, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nephilim, angel lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Was that a ... doorbell?" Sam asked.  </p><p>“Was that a doorbell at six in the morning?”  Dean grumbled.</p><p>"More importantly,” Sam wondered, “what the hell kind of secret bunker has a doorbell?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OneOddKitteh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneOddKitteh/gifts), [perdition-401](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=perdition-401).



"Bingbong bingbong bingbong"

Dean and Sam poked their heads out of their respective rooms and glared at each other, confused.

"Was that a ... doorbell?" Sam asked. 

“Was that a doorbell at six in the morning?” Dean grumbled.

"More importantly,” Sam wondered, “what the hell kind of secret bunker has a doorbell?" 

They both hesitated a minute, listening. 

"Well, you gonna get that?"

Sam sputtered, "That? I don't even know where 'that' is!"

"Fine, put some damn pants on, and you can check the main entrance; I'll check the garage door."

As Sam swept up the stairs and into the entrance corridor, he heard something, a sort of breathless sobbing. It wasn't coming from street-level, but from a niche in the brick wall to Sam's left, hitherto ignored. _Or maybe it didn't exist until now?_ Because it was a cabinet, maybe even a chute of some kind, that, surely, they'd have noticed. And inside? There was a baby. 

Inside a mysterious, unexplored doorway in the foyer of their ultra-secret supernaturally protected fortress, Sam found an angry, half-unswaddled infant in a Moses basket like, well, like fucking Moses. 

He (maybe?) had a note pinned to his blanket, and a furious little arm battered repeatedly against the paper to the point that Sam feared the baby might end up jabbed. He braved the tiny fist and removed the note. Sam found just one word and a string of numbers in an unfamiliar handwriting: arch 5-3-42-3. 

It was either a miracle or a trap, and Sam discovered sadly that he was just soft enough to fall for the baby-on-the-doorstep routine. Plus, the kid was kinda cute; with its scrunched-up squalling little bitchface, it reminded him of Cas in a smiting mood. He scooped up the baby, basket and all.

"Hello?" he called out. Useless waste of breath, of course, but he'd rather try than not. 

Pulling out his phone, Sam tapped a quick message to Dean.

***Found it- mostly harmless.***

***Mostly harmless?***

***You'll see- meet us at front door.*** 

***What's this us?***

The last message went unanswered, and when Dean opened the door and found his brother holding a baby, Sam watched his face fall. 

But all he said was, "Oh."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, it's the damnedest thing. Get this: I found it in a hole in the wall. Literally. It wasn't there before, and it's not there now. The only clue we have is this," clasped between two fingers. 

Dean snatched the note, examined the writing, turned the paper over. "I got nothing. What's its problem?" He asked, waving at the fussy baby. 

"Um, it's a baby. It's been abandoned by its mother. If I had to guess."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, even as he reached forward to take the chubby little thing into his arms. "Hey you," he muttered. "What's your deal, dude? Dudette, I don't know." He settled the baby against his chest, and the wee one stilled and grew quiet. Almost sighed in contentment. Dean looked up at Sam. "Well this is a whole bucket of crazy."

Sam laughed, "Yeah, the kid likes you. Weird."

They made their way back to the library to puzzle out the post-it, Dean cooing softly all the way. 

Sam might have melted a little to see his brother so wrapped up in the child. He'd had a rough couple of months. No doubt, Cas' sudden disappearance was to blame, but Sam didn't ask and Dean didn't tell. As per usual. 

However mopey Dean got in the bunker, though, nothing had really changed. There were always things to hunt and people to save, and whatever misery lurked in Dean's heart found relief in ruthlessness against the baddies and an exaggerated sense of compassion for their would-be victims. Always the extremes for Dean, no middle-ground.

And now for him to be showering the small bundle in his arms with so many kind words, to be sprinkling it with kisses, to be dropping his nose to the crown of its tiny head and inhaling the soft baby scent? Yeah, Sam melted a lot. 

"What are we gonna do with it?" Sam ventured.

"Well first thing, we stop calling it 'it.' Hey baby, what are you, huh?" He set the baby gingerly on the loveseat and peeled back the swaddling blanket and the thin linen diaper. "Congratulations, Sammy, it's a boy," he said with a smile. "But there's no way this diaper is gonna stop anything. Do me a favor," he asked, digging his keys from the pocket of yesterday’s jeans, "run to the store and grab some stuff, will ya? I'll check around for advice on the care and feeding of foundlings."

"What kind of stuff? I've never done this before, and neither have you."

"Sure you have, the shifter- oh yeah." He quickly changed the subject by rattling off a list of necessities. "Diapers for sure, the smallest they have. Better get the two smallest sizes, just in case. A couple canisters of formula. Get a couple different kinds, they get real fussy if they have an allergy. Um, bottles. Clothes. Tell you what, go to the baby store- I think the next town over has one in the mall- tell them you're fostering a little angel and just need the basics for a week or so. Take the card with the highest limit."

"For a week's worth of stuff, Dean?"

Dean just laughed and hoisted the baby to his shoulder. "Good luck, Sammy," he smirked.

~~~

Dean knew he would need help with this, but he was too scared to ask. If he was looking for advice on killing a monster or a god, he'd have no problem praying for help, but taking care of a baby? It was too much. Too personal. He was _not_ prepared to have that conversation, no thank you.

He wrapped the kid's butt in a few more more-absorbent layers, in case of flood, and then he rigged a hands-free baby carrier from a fitted bedsheet, careful to avoid crumpling or trapping the delicate bones and fluffy blue-grey feathers of his itty-bitty wings. Somehow, he'd always figured that baby angels would have white wings, but seeing as the only angel wings he'd _actually_ seen were black, he figured that this was not the last time he would figure wrong. 

Pushing the thought of black wings as far from him as he could, he and the wee one trudged towards the archive in search of anything useful. "Guess you're gonna need a name, huh, little man? Let's see, we used Bobby John last time; remind me to tell you that story someday." He chuckled, but then he frowned. "I know who I want to name you after, but _that_ ain't gonna happen." Another thought, and the scowl vanished, replaced with a calmer expression. "I could name you after Charlie, if you don't mind having a girl's name. She's really cool, you'll like her." The baby lifted his teal-green eyes to Dean and made a burbling face that almost looked like a smile. "What, you want to be Charlie? Okay, big boy, Charlie it is." He smiled. "Mind if I call you Chas?" 

Once in the archive, Dean realized that he had no idea where to begin. Usually when Sam sent Dean to the archive for this book or that pamphlet, he gave Dean a cataloging number to-

The post-it.

He started to pull it from his pocket when he heard a strange harumphing noise from the far end of the room. From the dungeon.

Against his better judgment, Dean called out, "Whaddya want, Crowley? Doing important research things in here. Like how to train your demon."

Faintly, the reply: "I can't concentrate on this scorching portrait of your mother I’m sketching with that smell in my nose. Good god, man, what is that beautiful stench?"

Dean fell prey to Crowley's fighting words. Without thinking, he barged through the sliding bookshelves. "You got something to say, assface?"

Crowley couldn't hide his delight. "A nephilim! Is it yours?"

If looks could kill, Crowley would have been vaporized. "It was on the doorstep, jackass."

"I'm sure it was,” Crowley replied seriously. “Typical concealment technique. I understand there was once quite a boom for abandoned bairns. Is it still a thing to leave one's unwanted babes in baskets? You humans never can pass up a good trope."

"Shove it, Crowley. You’re saying it's a nephilim? How do you know?"

The King of Hell fixed Dean with an insolent stare. "Because. I. Know. Not something you forget.” He smiled, a nasty smirk. “Not as juicy as human baby, a bit less indigestion with a soft lean nephilim, but to be honest with you, baby is baby."

"Go to Hell," Dean remarked lamely as he closed the bookcases.

"I'm been trying," he shouted, "but you and your brother are more concerned about the greater good than about my needs."

Dean berated himself for even coming in here. To be so close to Crowley was foolish enough; to stand before him with an abomination was suicide. Nothing for it now. He reached again for the yellow square in his pocket.

He had originally thought that "arch" referred to the arches in the vast sub-basement chambers, the ones with the ugly sun/snake/moon motif perpetrated again and again through a quarter-mile of corridor. He really hadn't wanted to go down there again, certainly not with a baby in his arms. Now, though, he had hope that "arch" meant "archive." 

As it happened, it wasn't much of a code: on the third shelf of the fifth bookcase, he found that the forty-second title was a four-part series on nephilim. Part three bore the title, "Advice on the Care and Feeding of Foundlings." _Son of a bitch._ "I couldn't do that again if I tried," he told little Chas. 

He flipped through the book, a medium-sized tome in medium-sized font, just a very average-looking unassuming volume of a series on the offspring of angels and humans. A subspecies that should not exist, should not have been possible since Biblical times. Dean checked the copyright page: 1911. Weird. Not for the first time, he wondered who or what the Men of Letters really were. They knew too much.

Fascinated as he was by the baby, he really didn’t want to plow through the whole book. At least not today. He was more the check-the-index-cut-the-crap sort of researcher. Dean contented himself with skimming the introduction. Nestled into a comfy chair in the library, though, somehow Dean felt awkward reading silently to himself with baby Chas looking up at him so sweetly, so intently. “What, you want to hear this? It’s not that interesting.” Chas blew a bubble at him and blinked.

“All right then.” Dean read: “‘Introduction to the Care and Feeding of Infant Nephilim: A Primer for the Exclusive Use of the Men of Letters.’ Oops. Squatters and legacies, too, I hope. Let’s see. ‘The Men of Letters have been honored to assist in the concealment and reassignment of nephilim infants since time immemorial.’ Blah blah blah… ‘Humans perceive nephilim as ordinary human offspring; however, some non-human entities, e.g. angels, fallen angels, demons, witches employing certain magical-detection spells, and the like, are capable of differentiating between neonatal nephilim and humans.’ It’s the wings,” he whispered. He looked down at the baby on his chest, still sharp-eyed and alert. “Seriously, little dude? I’ve read Prius manuals that were less boring.” Chas smiled, and Dean smiled back. The baby’s eyes goggled; Dean stuck his tongue out. He laughed and continued reading. “Where were we? Da da da, here: ‘For this reason, the Men of Letters and their partners in the hunting community have been instrumental in the early care of these young, as it is imperative to guard the child from outside influences that might seek to harm it, for at least the first three months. When the newborn feathers molt ( _see page 18 for more on wing care and grooming,_ ’” Dean turned to the page and dog-eared it. “ _See page 18… and see page 213 for more on molting_ ) and the discharge found in the diaper has changed from opalescent to the darker yellows and brown shades typical of human children,’ gross, ‘( _see page 219, figures 2 and 3_ )’ grosser, ‘then the child can be considered indistinguishable from other humans. At this point, the process of re-introducing the child into human society can begin. Unless the birth parents have left instructions on returning the child at the end of this initial’ blah blah blah.” Dean shook his head. “This sounds like a load of crap, Chas. Honestly. If one of your parents is an angel, he or she has to have the mojo to protect you. Why dump a baby into a wormhole that may or may not lead to a secret bunker that may or may not lead to anyone remotely capable of caring for a fucking newborn? Pardon my language.” He sighed. “Something smells funny, and it’s not just your diaper.”

~~~

When Sam staggered down the stairs, calling for help, Dean rushed in, but he stopped short and laughed at his distress. “Jesus Christ, dude, did you buy half the store? You look like the third fucking legion made you their pack-mule.”

Sam turned his friendliest hateful smile on the dick. “Would you shut the hell up and come help me? There’s more in the car.”

“I would, Sammy, but I was just about to feed the baby.” The baby was asleep in a homemade harness against Dean’s chest.

“Bullsh- Like hell you were, the formula’s still in the trunk. And the bottles are somewhere near my elbow. So if you could,” edging his brother out of the way so he could actually set down his packages.

“Nope, found a recipe for special angel chow. Seems we have a nephilim on our hands.” 

“A nephilim? Dean, aren’t they abominations?”

“The book says that’s insensitive,” Dean replied. Rather haughtily, too. “Which you of all people should-”

“Whatever.” Sam waved him off. “Have you called Cas?”

Dean turned his head. He looked sullen. “No, I have not called Cas,” spitting out the name. The baby stirred at his vehemence.

Sam eyed his big brother. Impatiently, he asked, “Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been acting like, like he didn’t call the next day?”

Dean completed the turn, his back to Sam and his hands gripping the closest chair back.

“Dean. You didn’t.”

He rolled his eyes so hard Sam could see it. “What can I say? It was a Lady Antebellum kinda night.”

“As in, ‘quarter after one, I’m a little drunk-’” 

Dean shot a finger pistol. “How was I supposed to know that singing would sound like praying? He came, he left, and, uh.” He shoved out a long breath. “And I haven’t seen him since.”

“Wow, Dean. I don’t know if that was TMI,” Dean looked back at him miserably, “but geez, I’m, I’m sorry. I never would have thought-”

“Yeah, me either. But no, I’m not calling him. I’m done calling him. I’m done.” He dropped a kiss to the baby’s head and sat, gently stroking the soft, thin mop of tiny yellow curls. 

“So what do we do now?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean roused himself somewhat. “Well, the note led to a book in the archive,” gesturing at the end table by the loveseat. “Unfortunately, while I was in there, I, uh, ran into Crowley, and he knows about this,” turning his hand to the sleeping child.

“You ran into him? You mean, you strolled into the dungeon with a baby on your hip-”

“He was in the carrier! But yeah.”

“Dean, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t, all right?” Raising his voice, he added, “I’m sorry! What do you want me to say?”

“Chill out, okay?” Sam tried to say it soothingly, to varying success. “Look, it’s not the end of the world. He’s chained, it’s fine.”

As if to give the lie to Sam’s words, the baby suddenly squalled.

“Shh, it’s okay. Mean old Crowley can’t get you, sweetie.” _Sweetie?_ Dean looked drained, but he stood and jerked his thumb towards the kitchen. “I’m gonna go feed Chas now. You wanna grab the book for me?”

“Chas?”

He looked at Sam cautiously. “Yeah.”

“You named the baby Chas?”

“Gotta have a name,” he muttered. 

“But why Chas? Isn’t that awfully close to-”

“Short for Charlie. You remember Charlie? About yea high, red hair, saved our skins a bunch of times? I named him after her. Is that a problem?”

Sam put his hands up defensively. “Nope, not a problem. Good choice.” He tried a peace offering, moving in close to the tiny person and murmuring, “Hey Chas, I’m Sam. I’m named after my grandfather, and he’s been known to be a sonofabitch, so you enjoy your name, okay sport?”

Dean’s face softened after that. He relaxed more as he busied himself in the kitchen, collecting ingredients and dropping them into the blender.

“Okay, milk, honey, basil, what’s next?”

Sam frowned. “Is this one serving?”

“Two servings, but they only eat once a day. What’s next?” he repeated.

“A teaspoon of cayenne?” Sam’s eyebrows lifted in alarm. “Are we trying to burn its little tongue off?”

“He, Sam, not it. And no, cayenne’s supposed to be good for the angel parts.”

“The angel parts? I thought when you checked his diaper, he had human parts.”

“Not, like, in its pants, dummy, just- Shut up and read the next ingredient.”

“Whatever. A teaspoon of ginger.”

“Done.”

“Half a teaspoon of salt.”

Dean looked up. “Only half?”

“Yup, just half. Black, if you’ve got it.”

“Now you tell me. Hang on.” He rummaged in a different cabinet and pulled out a canister labelled Indian Black Salt. “Okay, half a teaspoon of black salt. What’s next?”

“Last thing: three drops of balsamic vinegar.”

“Three drops?”

“Three drops.” He pulled a face. “Fussy recipe. Good thing he doesn’t need to eat often.”

“Hey, if it works.” Turning to the baby squirming in Sam’s arms, he said, “If it makes this big boy healthy and strong!”

“God you’re gross.”

“Shut the hell up,” he smirked. “Babies love me.”

“Clearly. Here, you hold him; I’ll stir this up and put it in a bottle for you.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Sam switched spots with Dean and got the baby food ready. While Dean cooed over Chas and commented on every slurp and gurgle, Sam caught up on his reading. He read the introduction and followed the see-mores. “Hey, one of these pages is already turned down.” 

“I didn’t get that far. We read half of the intro before we needed to change a diaper.”

“Yeah, how was that?”

Dean thought a second. “Let me put it this way: I’ll never use the phrase ‘shit rainbows’ in jest ever again.”

“Do you use that phrase a lot, Dean?”

“Not anymore,” he laughed. _Dean laughing, will wonders never cease._

Sam turned back to the book, and baby Chas finished his meal in relative peace. Dean set the empty bottle on the table and propped the infant on his shoulder. “Please don’t puke rainbows, little bit,” Dean pleaded as he rubbed at the tiny back.

Sam chuckled. “You want a towel?”

“Yes please.”

Sam set the towel across Dean’s shoulder and he carefully repositioned the baby. But Chas couldn’t get comfortable again; he fussed and cried, the same whimpering that had drawn Sam to his bassinet. 

“He and I are gonna go for a little walk around the bunker.”

“Okay,” Sam replied. “I’ll follow you as far as the library.”

Sam settled in for more reading. As reluctant as Dean was to relinquish the baby, as much as he clearly enjoyed keeping him close, Sam knew that Dean was never going to actually learn how to take care of the child without reading the book. And Dean would never read the book. And someone had to. Obviously, this was not a normal human child. It hardly ate; it pooped, um, differently (Sam was not looking forward to first-hand knowledge of the diaper situation); God only knew how often it was supposed to sleep, pun definitely not intended. By the time Dean and Chas returned to the library and got comfy in the comfy chair, Sam was halfway through “Chapter Six: Illnesses and Other Causes of Discomfort and Distress in Nephilim Infants.”

“Do you want me to take a turn?” Sam asked. “You’ve been stuck with him all day.”

“No, man, it’s cool. He’s happy, I’m fine. You reading the book?”

“Yup. I’m up to Chapter Six.”

“Illnesses and Discomfort.” Dean laid the sleeping baby face down, head barely pillowed on Dean’s knobby knee.

“Something like that. Thought you didn’t read it.”

“I skimmed the table of contents,” he shrugged. “Got the gist.”

Sam laughed. But then he did a double-take. “What are you doing?”

“I’m grooming him.”

“Grooming him?” Sam snorted. “You’re just wiggling your fingers over him!”

Dean looked miffed. “No, I’m not. I’m untangling his feathers.”

Sam sat up straight at that. “What feathers?”

“On his wings, Sam. What, you think he’s got feathers on his ass or- What?”

“You can see wings?” Sam asked quietly.

“Ye-es,” Dean replied slowly. “He’s always had wings.”

“Dean.”

“What?” He was cranky now.

“Dean, we might have a problem.”

His eyes got wide and he frowned. “Why, what?”

Sam turned back to the section on wings. “Read that,” indicating a paragraph about a third of the way down page 18. 

Dean cleared his throat. “‘Nephilim are winged creatures. Humans are incapable of ever seeing these, and they become invisible to all supernatural beings, even most angels, after the first three months of life, with three decided exceptions: a nephilim’s wings are always visible to itself, the sire, and the bearer.’ The sire and the bearer?” Dean did some mental math. “You don’t think-” pointing a finger at the baby’s back, then at his own chest.

Sam nodded slowly, a stunned look on his face.

Dean looked down at his hand, clearly seeing something in the empty air between his fingers. “You really can’t see them.”

Sam shook his head, just as slowly. “You gonna call him?”

Dean nodded. “I’m gonna need a few minutes alone, Sam.”

~~~

“Castiel, you got some ’splaining to do, you sonofabitch.”

Dean heard the flutter of wings behind him. 

“Come here, Cas.”

A slow, heavy tread plodded across the library floor. He stared in awe at the human with the sleeping infant still draped across his legs. “Hello, Dean,” Cas said, tearing his eyes away. 

“Well? You mind telling me what’s going on here?” His words were angry, but his tone was calm.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” His eyes glistened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you and I-” 

“So you ran away? Like you always do, Cas? You ran away and dealt with this on your own?”

Cas just nodded. His face crumpled, but still no tears fell.

“How, even? We used protection. _You_ used protection- I wasn’t even the one who did the-”

“Angels don’t mate like humans, Dean,” Cas retorted. _Duh Dean, fucking keep up._

“Mating, god, really? Is that what that was? Is that what I am to you, just a-”

“Dean, stop. Please.” Cas looked away. “I’d never been in heat before; I didn’t know what it would feel like. I didn’t know I could.” He didn’t blush, but his skin radiated warmth. Dean could see the faint glimmer even from five feet away. “I certainly didn’t think that I would, um, conceive the first time.” The word brought a blush to Dean’s cheeks instead. “Nor that everything would happen so fast. We don’t carry young for as long as humans do; there’s not a lot of time to prepare a human parent for-” His chin dropped to his chest. “I’m sorry; I should have known better. I’m, I’m so ashamed.”

Dean’s eyes lost their hardness and his jaw relaxed. “Cas, no, don’t be. I’m not- Fuck, I’m not mad that you, that we- Shit, dude, we have a kid!” He swallowed hard, shook his head. “No, that’s not even remotely why I’m mad. Cas. Come here, Cas.”

The angel moved to the chair, knelt at Dean’s feet. “You look exhausted,” Dean mumbled.

“Um. I’ve been busy.”

“So I see.” He scrubbed one hand through Cas’ hair and rested the other at Chas’ back. “Cas, you idjit.” Cas’ mouth quirked at the word, indicative of so much love in that messed-up family. Dean grinned quietly, too. “I’m mad that you left. I’m mad that you ran away and hid and didn’t tell me what was going on.” He paused. Focused his attention on the baby, on the wee wings, on the fluffy downy feathers, before turning again to look Cas full in the face and ruffle his hair with his fingers. “I don’t know anything about angel, uh, pregnancy, I guess. But maybe I would have liked to be there for you, huh? Maybe I wouldn’t want you going through this alone.” His eyes, full to overflowing, blurred and Dean looked away. “I should have been there for you. And I’ll always regret that.”

“Dean.”

“Cas. I- Um. If, or maybe when, this happens again. If you want to, uh, mate. You’ll tell me, right? We’ll, uh, we’ll do this right. You tell me when’s a good time. Or maybe tell me it’s a bad time and we shouldn’t, whatever; your choice.”

Cas nodded. 

“And we’ll do this right. _Capiche?_ You, me, deciding together.”

“Absolutely," Cas agreed. "I acted unfairly, I was out of line, and-”

“Shh. You said yourself, you didn’t know. And if I’m honest, I’m thrilled. Really,” he said with a smile. “He’s beautiful. I didn’t notice before, but he looks like you. Well, the shape you’re in, your vessel. Which is weird.”

“It’s normal,” Cas assured him. “His coloring is nothing like mine, though.” 

Dean smiled. “His hair looks like mine did when I was a baby. I bet he’s got your baby feathers.”

“Angels are different-”

“And his eyes are shaped and spaced like yours, but the color, well you can’t see it now because he’s sleeping but his eyes are a mix of ours.”

“I know, I saw them at his birth.”

Dean nodded, the smile gone. “Right.”

“Apologies. But you have the honor of naming him.”

“Oh?” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I kinda did already, but I was just screwing around. We can change it to-”

Cas shook his head. “No, the sire names the child. And the sire’s name cannot be altered.”

Dean scrunches his eyes. “That’s a lie, _Cas_ -tiel,” emphasizing the first syllable.

“Yes. Well, I suppose nicknames don’t count. It’s not a practice of ours, so we’ll call it a hitherto untested theory.” He tilted his head. “What’s the baby’s name?” he asked softly, tender eyes turned on the child.

“His name’s Charlie, but he goes by Chas.”

Cas smiled. “You named him for me.”

“No, I did not,” Dean puffed up again, but this time he laughed. “He’s named after Charlie, redhead, genius, total dork. But maybe Chas was … inspired by you. A little bit.” He pulled Cas closer and kissed him. “I love you so much.” His own eyes went wide at the unexpected confession. “Shut up, it’s true,” he smirked.

Cas beamed. “I know you do. The proof is alive and sleeping in your lap.”

Dean shook his head, amazed. “Someday, you’ll have to explain to me how this mating thing works,” Dean chuckled, stealing another kiss. Satisfied and sighing, he gently picked up the sleeping Chas and slipped him into Cas’ arms. “But for now, Mama Cas,” he teased, “we should go introduce our baby to his uncle.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a reference to the dorky Salma Hayek/Matthew Perry movie... I had a better title but this was hilarious...


End file.
